His cheek twitches and his lip curls. “Someone needs a lesson in where her place is.”
“Ziggy.” A firm hand clamps down on my left arm.
There’s no universe where I’m stronger than Holt.
Until adrenaline and pent-up grief and rage get involved.
And that’s exactly what I’m feeling as Eli sneers at me. “Ziggy. That’s such a whore name.”
I’m only partially in control of my body. There’s a whisper in my head sayingdon’t do itbut a bigger voice chantingshow them they can’t use you as a punching bag.
Show them you’re done with their shit.
Show them they can’t talk to you like this.
I’d like to tell you that it’s the voice that propels my fist into Eli Harrison’s nose.
But that’s not what happens.
What happens is that all of the turmoil inside of me decides to depart on its own, in its own fashion, and I haven’t been paying close enough attention to know that I should’ve done exactly what Holt told me to do and gone back into the bathroom.
I don’t feel my mouth open, but I see what comes out of it.
And lands square in the middle of Eli Harrison’s chest.
All over his arms.
In his rocks glass.
Splatters up to his chin.
I finally feel the heave in my stomach. Taste the acid in my mouth. Notice the hard grip on my arm.
Oh, shit.
Shit shitshit.
Eli screams. “Youcunt, this is Armani.”
He lunges for me, but there’s no impact, because a large man in a black polo and khaki uniform pants is tackling him to the ground.
I’m going to puke again.
This time, I turn and dash for the bathroom.
“Get the fuck off me, you asshole,” Eli’s yelling as I push into the ladies’ room.
“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before trapping a woman in a hallway, you fuckwanker,” Holt replies as I dash into a stall.
I’m fired.
I amsofired.
This is exactly why I’m not on the ship anymore.
Because you don’t puke on cruise ships.
And you don’t puke when you’re working with a catering staff either.
